they proceeded toward the dining-room.
Advance was a little slow; there was some confusion here and even
crowding, replete diners blocking the way of those just going in. Just
at the door, a party of five or six managed to come between Carlisle and
Canning, who was dutifully looking out for his future mother-in-law; the
girl became momentarily separated from her protectors. Or perhaps it was
partly Cally's own fault, precipitated by the sight of a page standing
near, who certainly seemed to have been stationed there by the hand of
Providence....

Having stared fascinated at this page for half a second, Carlisle
brought him to her side by a nod. The lad was fifteen and had seen
lovely ladies in his time, but raising his eyes to this one, he
acknowledged that she was a Queen.

"Call long distance for me, boy.... I'll write the number."

The boy produced pad and pencil, and she scribbled rapidly, a smile
hovering over the sweet mouth whose slight irregularity charmed the eye
beyond flawlessness.

Why, indeed, wait longer, running and sticking one's head in the sand,
when here was the telephone, immediate and conclusive, when she felt now
so brave and sure, and could tell mamma and Hugo this very night without
a tremor? All was simple now, and highly adventurous besides. And then
there was Jack Dalhousie to whom even a day or two, now that she stopped
to think of it, would probably make a good deal of difference....

Turning again with bright cheeks, Cally encountered strange faces; and
then, in a second or two, the familiar ones of her mother and Canning,
both looking back for her....

"There you are!" she laughed, coming up with them again. "What an
exciting jam!"

They proceeded into the dining-place and to their table, a somewhat
ceremonial progress headed by three spiketails. Even in that display of
beauty, wealth, consequence, and their lifelike imitations, these three,
or perhaps we should say these two, drew much attention. Carlisle was
conscious of lorgnettes; once she caught the whisper of the name so soon
to be her own. Late as they were, the room was still crowded: the
well-bred but wandering eye saw no vacant seat anywhere. There was music
in the air, and the clash of cutlery, the vocal hum, and the faint
tinkle of glasses. There were flushing faces and eyes that sparkled like
the wine, and of it, many fragrances commingled, of flowers, chefs'
_chefs-d'oeuvre_, of Pinaud and Roget. Through all, too, wa